It’s half past ten on a Monday morning and I’m sitting by the pond in my deckchair minding my own business. Reading a novel set in Vienna during the war. Sipping treacly black coffee from my ceramic beaker. Lazing on the banks in thirty degree heat. My skin already the colour of bark after a burning week of sun.
I can hear nothing except crickets, frogs and the whirr of dragonfly wings. I can see water boatmen paddle along the banks on their morning fishing trips. Pond skaters dance on the meniscus showing off their acrobatics to the water beetles below. Newts dart up to the surface to catch a snack and then disappear back into the murk. Marsh frogs swim out and congregate on the wooden raft that I built for the ducks over the winter.
There was a huge storm last night that replenished the water level much to the delight of the frogs who kept half the population of Queaux awake with their joyous croaks. As normal, I slept through all of it. But I gathered in the morning that it was a big one. ‘Nature’s hairdryer turned up to full,’ I was told.
Not that such occurrences would bother anything here in the pond. They couldn’t care less what happened, or what day of the week it was.